The de Blasio Diaries, Chapter 21: Hill Country

O.K., I’m hiding in a Hardee’s parking lot a few miles outside of Des Moines. I’ve got this speech I have to give tomorrow—which was scheduled weeks ago, mind you, weeks before Hilla’ The Hun (hmm, that sounded better in my head than it looks on the page) announced she was going to be running for Empress of the Universe, and before I knew she’d be hitchhiking out to Iowa the same week.

Now, listen, I worked for Hillary for a number of years. Once, I lent her a belt for her pantsuit in a moment of crisis, that’s how close we were. We shared slices of pizza (me using a fork and knife, her chomping at the slice like a heathen). She used to call me “Work Bill” (her husband was “Play Bill”). And, once, once, after we had had a few too many beers one night, she accidentally called me “Play Bill”—“Hey, Play Bill, where are my glasses? I can’t find them!”—and when she realized what she’d done, we made eye contact for a charged three seconds, and then we never spoke about it again.

So why didn’t I endorse her right away on Sunday? Why didn’t I go on Meet the Press in a bob-length wig and with those ridiculous “texting sunglasses” on and pray at her altar? Because she took my blender and never gave it back. I know, I know, I know. This sounds like an episode of Seinfeld, or whatever. But listen, this was a fancy blender. Back in 1999, or whenever, we hadn’t hit Juicing Mania yet; so my $70 blender was pretty damn pricey (that would have been enough for the vibes to be very . . . lush for a good three months back then, if you catch my drift). Hil asked one day if I had a blender she could borrow to “whip up Play Bill a banana smoothie for his birthday” (this was during one of their “good patches,” but that’s another diary entry for another time). Like a good campaign manager, I brought it in the next day (removing it from the kitchen when Chirlane was asleep). “You’ll have this back tomorrow!” she chirped. Except she never brought it back. The campaign ended a few weeks later, and I e-mailed her asking if I could swing by to pick up the blender. The woman never responded. Now, we all know she has her e-mail issues, but c’mon.

I had totally forgotten about all of this—I’m a pretty chill dude, as we know—until about a year ago, a few months after I became mayor, when Hillary invited me and Chirlane over one night—a welcoming gesture, we thought. (Bill was “on a golf trip.”) Hillary showed us a few logo options for her planned campaign (I told her that the red arrow one looked like the logo for a supermarket savings card—didn’t stop her from picking it, apparently). We played some board games. It was a nice night. But right before we were going to leave, Chirlane whispered in my ear and pointed toward the kitchen, “Bill, why is our old blender from the 90s in Hillary’s kitchen?” There it was, between a picture of Chelsea in front of the Machu Picchu and an empty Chipotle burrito bowl: my blender. She had been using it for 15 years. I’m sorry, but wars have been started over less than this.

Yeah, eventually I’m gonna have to endorse her for 2016, but I’m gonna make her sweat a little. Just like I had to sweat when I had to lie 15 years ago and tell Chirlane that our daughter had accidentally broken our blender while Chirlane had been out at the gym, and that’s why it was suddenly gone. (I still feel a pang of guilt whenever I see Chiara blending a kale smoothie, to this day.) No, my delay is not about Hillary’s tax plan or any issues I might have with her antidepressant ad of a coming-out clip (“I’m getting started on a new tomorrow!” Well, I’m getting started on closing this tab). I just want my frickin’ blender back.

Now, does anyone know where can I get a good pastrami sandwich in Iowa?